


Thy body is a temple - upon its altar I lay my offerings

by ximeria



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Body Image, Body Positive, Body Worship, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Making Out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-09-19 08:01:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20327779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ximeria/pseuds/ximeria
Summary: Crowley sets himself the task of showing Aziraphale that he loves every inch of him. He may get a bit carried away and needs to be reeled in - but what else is new? And it's not like Aziraphale minds, is it?





	Thy body is a temple - upon its altar I lay my offerings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [meinposhbastard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/meinposhbastard/gifts).

> For Meinposhbastard, as thanks for being 1. an evil enabler 2. a damned good beta 3. forcing me to rethink how I write.
> 
> And for cooking dinner when I can't be arsed XD

There's a thin beam of sunlight hitting the bed like a liquid, focused beam of pure gold. Crowley would like to think it's there specifically for the bed's sole occupant.

The setting is near perfect, if you ask him. Not just for himself, he could do without the spotlight, but for Aziraphale, who is lying still on his back in the middle of the bed, wearing nothing but a shirt and a pair of boxers and a silk blindfold. It's not his usual outfit, but Crowley suggested it for comfort before they began. The blindfold was an easy addition, because Crowley wants this to be all about Aziraphale, and the angel has a habit of focusing on him when they're together. He doesn't want this to change, but he wants Aziraphale to use the rest of his senses instead of just his eyesight.

The bed itself is a big old thing, wooden frame, sturdy as hell. It's not as ornate as Crowley would have expected, but then again, as much of a hedonist as the angel is, he loves good workmanship and this looks sturdy enough to handle an orgy.

Not that Crowley is intending any Olympic level gymnastics on it (or invite other people to the party), but it fits the room itself. They're above the bookshop, and Crowley feels like he's entered a sanctum. He knows that Aziraphale rarely rests, and, unlike himself, sleep finds him on even rarer occasions [1].

They've had sex here a few times. It's not something they do often. They'll sit on the couch and cuddle, or lie on the bed, all wrapped up in each other, physically and mentally, but neither of them are particularly interested in the human act of sexual intercourse. It sometimes happens anyway, but it's never the endgame.

Crowley can't remember the last time he's felt so at peace with himself and the world. Before Armageddon, he wouldn't have admitted to this, but now, with Aziraphale as a more constant part of his life? Most certainly.

Today isn't about sex. It's about one thing that has nagged Crowley about their physical interaction. It hasn't been all that noticeable when they've been dressed, cuddling on the couch, but once Crowley started noticing it, he hasn't been quite sure about how to approach it.

He kneels on his side of the bed, arms folded on the edge of the mattress, just looking at Aziraphale. The sunlight highlights the pale hair, ruffled and a bit of a mess - mostly because they were kissing before this, and Crowley can not for the love of anyone keep his fingers out of the hair. It's so soft and inviting, curls around his fingers, urges him to tug on it, play with it, stroke it, flatten it. _Make a mess of it_.

Crowley's down to his boxers as well. The room is more than warm enough, and he wants to be comfortable as well.

"Crowley?" There is a world of patience in Aziraphale's voice at this very moment.

"Hush, angel - remember you promised me." Crowley rises up and climbs on his hands and knees on the bed. He comes to a stop next to Aziraphale, sits back on his heels and continues to look.

Why do you hide all this away? He wants to ask. He's not advocating Aziraphale walk around naked, but he's always so buttoned up in layers and layers of clothes, almost hiding. He wants to strip him naked and have it all, it's a compulsion and a need that is stronger than he'd expected. And it hadn't been until Crowley had gotten him out of some of those layers that he'd noticed a habit. 

Crowley can pretty much touch him anywhere. Soft touches to shoulders, neck, earlobe, lips. He has run his hands enticingly up and down the legs, and on the few occasions where they've made the effort for the sake of human sex, he's had the angel plastered all over him, no inhibitions.

The problem seems to be that whenever he has time to think, Aziraphale is more self conscious about this vessel than Crowley would have expected. He always seems so comfortable, yet Crowley has seen one or two tells.

He leans down and touches the inside of Aziraphale's wrist, at the cuff of the shirt. The skin is so soft, and he can hear Aziraphale drawing in a long breath of air. He doesn't need it, but in many ways they have both been around long enough that their human bodies just… run on automatic - and the human body seems to prefer to breathe.

And there's no reason for him not to, so he does; leans down and presses dry lips to the skin.

There's a very faint noise from Aziraphale. Not a moan, just the softest echo of one.

Crowley has a moment's wonder about tying those lovely, pale wrists with red silk string. It'll be a stark contrast and the mental image makes him lick his lips, taking a moment to focus again. It's a lovely idea, but that will have to be another day. Right now he knows what his goal is.

He runs the tip of a finger up along the underside of Aziraphale's arm, the shirt a thin and soft barrier between their skins. He leans in again, and kisses the bend of the elbow, breathing hotly against the cloth, knowing Aziraphale can feel it. He can hear the small intake of air and knows that Aziraphale is enjoying the heightened senses because he can't see what Crowley is about to do - but he trusts him. And hea- hel- whatever - Crowley isn't sure he deserves that kind of trust.

Pressing his nose into the softness of the edge of an armpit, Crowley can smell nothing but the usual scent from Aziraphale. There's a light scent that clings to all angels - like too clean, ozone like. It's never appealed to Crowley, but when it's combined with the smell that is inherently Aziraphale, of books and dust and ink - apples and cinnamon, wherever that comes from - it's just always been there. It's like the smell of late summer, early autumn. Crisp and sweet.

Another small, almost moan escapes Aziraphale.

"Alright, angel?" Crowley asks. 

"Yes," Aziraphale replies, more a mutter than a clear word.

Crowley wants to get more skin, but he's not about to rush this. He runs a finger down over the buttons of Aziraphale's shirt. He isn't trying to undo them, but slips two fingers under the hem of the shirt, feeling as well as hearing the reaction.

He's been expecting this. It's not that Aziraphale is extremely conscious of his body, but there are times when Crowley feels he needs a little push. Crowley is familiar with some of the reasons. You don't go through centuries without noticing the changes in how humans view physical bodies. It used to be seen as healthy and, in many cultures, as physically alluring as well if you had curves. During that era, Crowley had to trust in tempting people towards other people - his own skinny body just hadn't done the trick. 

If the angel had looked for a bedmate back then, he would have been swimming in applications. Crowley had never quite lost sight of that period's body image. He'd liked it. He'd rarely indulged himself, but he'd definitely had a preferred type. The tastes of the time also meant very little in the way of self consciousness in his friend and an unapologetically carefree Aziraphale was perhaps one of the most magnificent things in the world.

These days? With their slim hips and narrow frames? One would see Aziraphale as a little chubby. Crowley doesn't like applying human words to him, though. To him, Aziraphale is perfect in every way, the curves an invitation to curl his bony fingers over or around, a softness to rest against in bed, on the couch, on occasion, on a park bench if Aziraphale is feeling adventurous.

It doesn't help that one drunken night not too long after derailing Armageddon, Aziraphale had admitted to how Gabriel had told him to lose the gut. He'd almost defended the archangel, but Crowley had stopped him. The whole conversation had come about as they had spoken about their respective visits to Heaven and Hell. And Crowley could easily see something that Gabriel might have considered part of his 'pep' talk to actually hit a little too close to home.

One thing was how humans would view them, but an archangel, who stood above a principality, even one who had been the guardian of the Easter Gate of Eden, it would have stung.

Crowley already doesn't particularly like Gabriel [2]. He's not about to make excuses for him. A physical vessel has no impact on one's battle prowess, Crowley knows, because in this aspect there is no difference between an angel and a demon. If the end times had indeed happened and they'd had to fight, angels and demons alike would have shed their mortal coil and fought as they were. Power has no physical shape. If it had, Crowley wouldn't be half as powerful as he is, and he knows that Aziraphale only ever shows a fraction of his skill.

He wonders as he rubs the warm skin again, if he'll ever be allowed to see him fully bloom? Because Aziraphale is not so much a late bloomer as he seems to hide his power under his unassuming mantle, thus causing everyone around him to underestimate him. 

Which they do.

Except for Crowley.

Pushing the shirt up a little, he bends down and presses dry lips to the bare skin of Aziraphale's stomach, feeling the hitch in breathing and slight tremble under his touch.

He's always known, or suspected at least, but when they borrowed each other's bodies to survive their so called trials, Crowley had felt the power during the transition. So much power, not dormant just… untapped, unused.

His angel would have been a force worth reckoning with on the battlefield if it had come to that. If he'd chosen to fight. But Crowley knows him as well as he knows himself. Neither of them were or are willing to fall into line, to be mindless drones in a battle neither of them believe in.

Crowley parts his lips and licks a strip along the elastic of Aziraphale's boxers. He can feel the tremble through the flesh, can taste the salt on the skin, like a spice tickling his tongue.

Where he's skinny and sharp, Aziraphale is rounded and soft; where he's prickly, Aziraphale is lenient and welcoming. Crowley presses his cheek against a hip, nuzzles at the warm skin and presses another kiss into the flesh.

Like this, gravity pulls a bit on the angel's body and the belly isn't quite as visible as it is when he's standing or sitting. It's too bad, Crowley thinks, but at least he can still feel it. He pushes his nose into the softness just shy of a belly button - another thing that they don't need and that he knows Aziraphale added originally because if one sat in a Roman bath and one had none, questions were bound to be asked [3].

Aziraphale has just never gotten around to getting rid of his - truth be told, neither has Crowley.

Crowley feels a brush of fingers against his leg, and when he looks down, he watches Aziraphale slowly stroking his finger along Crowley's leg. The sensation is featherlight and captures Crowley's not insignificant focus for a moment. Aziraphale is handling this quite well, not touching, or trying to, at least not yet. He's still just lying there, at ease, only slightly tensing whenever Crowley touches his belly or his hips and thighs.

The really good spots, if one asks Crowley.

Shifting on the bed, Crowley gets up onto his knees again and swings one leg over Aziraphale's thighs. Staying on hands and knees for a moment, he studies the other, taking in every little shiver and reaction. He can see how Aziraphale's hands are now clenching in the quilt they're lying on.

With a soft smile he leans down and puts his face next to Aziraphale's, cheek to cheek, his mouth right at the angel's ear. "Everything still okay, angel?" The blindfold brushes against his skin.

"Yes," Aziraphale breathes out, his breath a small burst of heat against Crowley's cheek. It feels like a benediction.

Before returning to what he is doing, Crowley lets his head drop and mouths at the skin just above Azriaphale's collar. The soft moan from Aziraphale tempts him into doing it again, this time grazing his teeth against the damp skin.

Crowley shuffles back down a little, until he's sitting across Aziraphale's knees. He's about to lean up and continue his work under Aziraphale's shirt.

"Crowley?" 

Crowley stops instantly, his fingertips less than an inch from the bottom button of the shirt. "Yes?"

"It may sound silly…"

"Anything, angel, you know that," Crowley interrupts him. He means it. He's here to do all the work and he relishes it.

"Would you speak while we're doing this, let me hear your voice?" The request is so simple, but Crowley knows exactly why this is the best thing Aziraphale could have asked of him.

"Anything specific you want to hear?" Crowley asks, already planning ahead.

"No, just your voice, my dear."

Crowley closes his eyes for a moment, then exhales slowly.

"You are always so good to me," Crowley whispers against the warm skin of Aziraphale's stomach. "You indulge me, you let me touch you. You let me worship you." He feels the shift in Aziraphale's body minutely, hears the breathing speeding up.

Crowley undoes the bottom two buttons of the shirt, parting the tails to get better access. Button number three follows. "You look like a temptation made flesh, angel, you tempt me." He presses a soft kiss to the skin above the belly button.

Aziraphale tightens his hold on the quilt, the muscles in his arms shifting, fingers digging into cloth as if he's afraid he'll fly to pieces.

"I am the snake from the Garden of Eden, I am the original tempter, I have been heralded as the tempter above tempters, yet at your feet I am a mere novice." He undoes another button and pushes the shirt further out of the way. The soft skin above the hip begs for his attention.

And Crowley happily goes to it. He rubs his lips over the stomach to the spot he wants. The love handles, as humans sometimes call them. It is a too crude description to use about this lovely creature. Crowley presses his face against the skin, feels the flesh heat under his breath. It is all he can do to hold back for a moment or two. And why should he? He should give in.

"Crowley," Aziraphale gasps above him, breathing faster, body arching just a little.

"You wanted my voice," Crowley says, wanting to smirk, but his voice comes out a little more broken than he expects. He rarely gets to do this. "You never specified what I could or could not say." He laps at the flesh in front of him, taking it between his teeth and biting just hard enough to make a point.

"Ah," Azirapale replies, sounding a little lost. "Darling, I-"

Crowley bites a little harder. "Don't," he warns. He doesn't want Azirpahale to back out on this.

"My darling love, I would never," Aziraphale's reply drops to a whisper. "But be gentle with me."

Crowley presses a kiss to the spot he just nipped at. "Always."

And that seems to be the extent of Aziraphale's interruption, so Crowley goes back to what he was doing. Another button is undone. Then another. Until only two buttons are holding the shirt connected in the middle.

Those go as well, and Crowley sits back to survey his prize. The sunlight is still highlighting everything, but now it catches in the fine white hairs on Aziraphale's body, on his chest, on his stomach. It gives the pale skin an ethereal look, like it's lit up from within. Like Aziraphale is shining as brightly, if not brighter, than the sun.

"Thy body is a temple," he mouths against a collarbone. "Upon thy altar I lay my offerings," he continues, lips moving against the dip between the collarbones. "At thy feet I kneel to worship."

He feels how Aziraphale goes still, only minute tremors going through his body.

"Angel, I have a secret for you," Crowley whispers against his sternum. "You are the most beautiful of Her creations, the most compassionate, you truly are a being of pure love." He feels Aziraphale draw breath to argue. "Do not argue with me, angel, for how else could you love a demonic creature like me?"

He bites into the flesh just below a nipple and the cry this elicits cuts through Crowley to the core. It breaks him apart and fills all the cracks with molten sunlight. He does it again, just to hear it, he licks at the nub and feels how Aziraphale is trying not to thrash about under him.

Sitting up, he catches Aziraphale's hands and tugs him up into a seated position. He stays where he is, sitting across Aziraphale's thighs. He puts one hand on the back of Aziraphale's head and pulls it down against his shoulder, while he puts the other around the warm body.

Aziraphale's arms are tight around him, fingers digging into Crowley's flesh, and he's of half a mind to allow the bruises to linger for a few days. For now, he's just holding on while the angel gasps against his neck.

"Don't say that, please don't say that," Aziraphale manages between breaths. "You are worthy of love, you are worthy of praise. And if I was created for anything, it would be to love you, you complete me, you-"

Crowley pulls his head back by the hair and desperately cuts his litany off, swallowing the damning words. This is not what he'd been aiming for. This is supposed to be entirely for Aziraphale's benefit, not his!

"What are we like, you and I?" he whispers against Aziraphale's mouth when they break apart. "Angel, how the hell did we manage to survive for 6 millenia?"

"We buried ourselves in work, I believe," Aziraphale says with a watery chuckle.

Crowley realizes that the blindfold is damp and as he reaches for it, fingers sliding along it, Aziraphale searches blindly for his hand, stopping him. He turns Crowley's hand and presses an open mouthed kiss to the palm. It makes Crowley's heart do somersaults in his chest. Makes him feel like he's going to fly apart any moment now.

"Please," Aziaphale says, turning his head to blindly face Crowley. He presses Crowley's hand to his cheek and then he lies back down, only slowly letting go of Crowley's hand as he does so. He keeps ahold of it long enough to guide it in a soft, sensual glide down over his bare chest.

Crowley is mildly surprised that the hand doesn't catch fire, because he feels like he's about to combust.

He takes a deep breath, palm flat, hand resting on Aziraphale's stomach now, feeling the rise and fall, realizing that Aziraphale might be doing so on purpose. He doesn't need to, but the motion helps calm Crowley, so why not? Perhaps it helps Aziraphale focus as well. [4]

Crowley pushes the tips of his fingers into the softer flesh, hearing the soft 'oh' escaping Aziraphale. It's okay, it will be okay. Leaning forward, he slides his hands down to hold onto the hips and kisses his way softly across Aziraphale's stomach. He noses his way down over his crotch, aware that there is nothing there under the thin layer of the boxers. He presses his nose into the joint between the flat surface and the meatier thigh.

"Do you want us to make an effort for this, or-" he asks, only lifting his head enough to ask.

"Not for now," Aziraphale says. "Unless you want to. I'm not sure-" There's a questioning lilt to his voice. 

Crowley bites gently through the boxers into the top of the thigh. "No, but if you change your mind, let me know, alright?"

Aziraphale seems to relax a little more. "Yes." 

Crowley works his way up along one hip, nosing, nipping and occasionally licking the skin. The little imperfections that are noticeable up close, but add so much more to the whole. He touches those extra lovingly with his tongue.

Up along the ribs, the gentle curve of the pectorals, not defined as society seems to prefer these days, but there and beautiful. He pushes his face against the soft folds at the beginning of the armpit. He bites at the tendon there ever so lightly, and again, this elicits a soft exhaled moan. No words, but encouragement enough.

Shifting, Crowley lifts up on all fours, bracketing Aziraphale's body under his. The sun is still illuminating pale skin, except where Crowley's shadow falls on it. There's twilight there, dusk, shade.

He wonders what Aziraphale's skin might look like in pale moonlight. Acres of pale skin, spread bare under the night sky. Perhaps a picnic blanket out in the middle of nowhere, no light to compete with the stars, no other illumination for the angel's skin, but the moon itself.

Crowley's mouth goes dry at the mere thought. It's a fantasy he'll remember, and he'll ask Aziraphale to take part in it at some point. But not now. Right now, he has other things to do.

"Even the sunlight knows a deity when it falls upon one," he whispers against Aziraphale's rib cage.

He feels the flutter of Aziraphale's hands on his own. He'd initially thought he'd want Aziraphale to not touch him while he was doing this, that he wanted to make it all about the angel and not about himself. But if Aziraphale needs the added stimulus, who is he to say no?

Crowley takes Azirphale's hands, gently and slowly, because as much as he knows Aziraphale trusts him, he can't see what's going on right now. Placing Aziraphale's hands on his own hips, Crowley lets go of them with a soft caress down over hands and fingers.

Aziraphale grasps at Crowley's hips, strong fingers digging into his bony body. He knows that if he were to take this further, and Azirphale hadn't said no, he'd be hard and wanting friction.

Without the physical anatomy of a male, though, there is nowhere for that rush to go, except to spread out through is body, running like lightning through his veins and pumping blood through veins on the inside of his thighs.

Swallowing hard, Crowley lets it take over, allows it to flow freely through his body. He channels it into the single minded focus as he leans down to one side. He lets his tongue split enough that he knows Aziraphale will know what he's done, and like this, it allows him to access more of his snake form's senses - most specifically using the tongue to scent with. He's been wanting to try this for a while. He's never had the urge with anyone else, but Aziraphale is his portal to new worlds and experiences. There are so many things he knows about but has never wanted to attempt on his own or with a human. Let alone another demon.

The gasp as he flicks the tip against the nipple is enough to tell Crowley that Aziraphale has indeed noticed. He does it again, and again, Aziraphale's hands slipping a little further down to grab at his arse instead.

Crowley's not going to complain, he'll have bruises and he'll leave them there for as long as possible. He'll be feeling it when he sits down. The mere thought quickens his breathing, without any input from him. His body likes that idea, Crowley likes that idea and he does it again, though this time he nips at the nub as well, grazes it with his teeth.

Aziraphale lets out a small sob, arching up against him.

It being such a success, Crowley licks his way across Aziraphale's chest, heading for the other nipple. He can feel the tremors in Aziraphale's chest, who knows where this is going. He slips his tongue out against it, tasting-smelling the ozone that clings to all heavenly creatures, but also the sweetness that is Aziraphale, a little salt as a fine sheen of sweat is forming on the angel's skin. And _oh fuck_, he'd never expected how heavy the scent of pheromones could be this way. He can scent and taste his own, but also Aziraphale's, and it's like a moth to a flame. He has to have more. More light, more sweetness, it's addicting.

He doesn't realize how lost he is until Aziraphale, frantically gasping and pulling at his hair, tells him to stop.

Time slows to a grinding halt and Crowley buries his face against Aziraphale's neck, breathing hard, trying to find his self-control. This had been meant for Aziraphale and here he is, all but mauling the angel and _taking_.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Crowley chants into the skin. He tries desperately to reign in the snake in him. The part that wants to claim his mate, sink his fangs into his neck and _take_. The part of him that has very definitely decided to make an effort, currently pressed and rubbing against Aziraphale's hip.

He's mortified, absofuckinglutely mortified. "Shit, angel, I didn't mean to, you said-"

His head is dragged up from Aziraphale's neck by the hair. He'll be lying if he claims it doesn't send another burst of fire through his veins, and he very carefully lifts his embarrassing parts off the angel.

"I think we need this gone," Aziraphale mutters, pushing the blindfold up with his free hand. The fingers of the other are still buried in Crowley's hair. He blinks up at Crowley, eyes adjusting to the light.

Breath stutters from Crowley's lungs. He's breathtaking, this divine creature, and Crowley's all but humping him like a mutt in heat. "You didn't want-" he tries to say again, but Aziraphale shuts him up by forcing his head down and swallowing any regrets that Crowley is trying to voice, sucking hard on his tongue, thick human tongue pushing in between the fork of Crowley's.

With the other hand, he grabs Crowley's arse and pulls him down, hard.

It takes a moment or two for Crowley's brain to catch up, but his body is keeping pace just fine. He finds he's no longer pressing against a flat piece of anatomy as Aziraphale arches up against him.

The world turns and flips and Crowley blinks in surprise as he looks up at Aziraphale pinning him to the bed.

"I'm sorry, my love, I fear patience is not a virtue of mine," Aziraphale tells him, colour high on his cheeks. "And I know what I said. But I was enjoying myself and I was enjoying focusing on your words and touch." He shakes his head when Crowley tries to interrupt. "It does not mean I don't want to do this."

Crowley's eyes close without any conscious input from him. By flipping them over, Aziraphale has positioned himself between Crowley's legs, weight and very obvious interest pressed against the underside of Crowley's own erection.

"Now, if you don't mind, I would like to repay you," Aziraphale whispers, leaning down to chastely press his lips to Crowley's. "You said on more than one occasion that you feel your're not good with words. I should like to argue that you are beyond gifted, though." He leans down again and kisses Crowley, parting his lips with his tongue and seeking out Crowley's. He pulls back, a soft look on his face. "Please do not hide that gifted tongue from me." 

Crowley feels like someone's poured molten lava into his veins. Out of habit, he's let his tongue revert to the human form that fits this vessel. He feels almost shy when he allows the tongue to split again, meeting Aziraphale halfway in a soft kiss, one that gets a lot more heated as Aziraphale sucks on his tongue.

Eventually, Aziraphale breaks the kiss, pulling back to sit between Crowley's thighs. He puts his hands on Crowley's hips and looks him in the eyes, his pupils blown out of their usual proportion. His lips are red and plumper from the kissing and Crowley can't help but lick his own and reach for Aziraphale again.

Aziraphale stops him by grabbing his hand and kissing the palm. He tugs at the elastics of Crowley's boxers with the other. "Would you mind terribly?" he asks.

Crowley moans and lets himself fall back. The angel is going to be the death or discorporation of him. He waves his hand and the boxers are gone. They're not really garment. Unlike Aziraphale, Crowley doesn't wear human-made clothes, he just wills them into being.

Aziraphale pouts at him. "I wanted to do that the normal way," he says.

Crowley feels like an idiot. "I'm-"

Aziraphale squeezes his hand and lets go. "No, you don't get to apologize - I'll get it next time." 

Crowley thumps his head against the mattress and moans. It feels like his body is vibrating on the verge of flying apart, and the angel is already planning the next round.

"Now, where were we?" Aziraphale murmurs, rubbing his fingers along Crowley's thighs, urging him to bend at the knees. "You likened my body to a temple," he says, smoothing his hand along the inside of Crowley's thigh. "If that were so, it would be a simple church compared to the splendor of your cathedral." He presses his lips to Crowley's knee.

Wanting to argue, Crowley opens his eyes and stares up at Aziraphale, just as he palms Crowley's cock.

The touch, while expected at some point, is like a lightning strike to his gut, to his balls, to his heart. A wordless yell is wrenched from his lips and he comes without any kind of control. He's normally better than this, can pace himself, but apparently he's not quite a match for Aziraphale.

Leaning down, Aziraphale laps at Crowley's stomach, running the tip of his tongue through the mess. Crowley's of half a mind to just remove it with a thought, but he's caught in the moment, watching Aziraphale licking at it with a focused expression on his face. He closes his eyes as he can feel the wet tip of the tongue rasping against his skin.

He wants to reciprocate, but before he can, Aziraphale has snapped his fingers and his own boxers are gone. And Crowley nearly jolts upright when Aziraphale lies down on top of him, his erection sliding through the mess and against Crowley's still very sensitive cock.

If he has enough consciousness left, he can make himself hard again. But this is better, he can tell from Aziraphale's muttered endearments. He arches up against Aziraphale and moans as Aziraphale latches on to the tendon between his neck and shoulder, teeth sinking into it.

"Aziraphale…" Crowley pants. He doesn't know what he wants to say. He just wants to chant the name over and over again, until it becomes an undying prayer on his lips.

His own hands slide down to cup Aziraphale's shoulder blades, the edges where their wings are if they manifest them and now _there's_ another little piece of fantasy rearing its head. His thoughts are thoroughly derailed as he hears Aziraphale's mumbled words against his neck. With each kiss, lick, nip, there's a small word of praise, in Sumerian, in Latin, a few in Japanese, Spanish and French and possibly one or two in other, long gone dead languages.

The voice barely falters as Aziraphale shakes against him, his thrusts against Crowley growing faster, more frantic with each moment and word that passes Aziraphale's lips where they're pressed against Crowley's skin.

The release is almost like a second thought. Crowley knows it happens, but at this point, Aziraphale has reared up and is busy sucking on Crowley's tongue. His frantic rolling of the hips and the slippery slide of his cock against Crowley's is all Crowley can focus on.

Aziraphale doesn't so much break their kiss as slow it down, breath heavy against Crowley's lips, gentling from burning passion to soft and lovingly. At some point Aziraphale kisses his way down Crowley's cheek and buries his face against Crowley's neck. His body is a heavy, but welcome, weight on top of Crowley.

Crowley considers saying something, breaking the silence, but he realises that he doesn't have to. Everything that needs to be communicated right now is being verbalised by breath and damp lips pressed against skin. By Crowley's hands still gently cupping Aziraphale's shoulder blades, fancying that he can feel the soft brush of wings.

Aziraphale has pushed his arms under Crowley's at some point, and one is bent to hold onto Crowley's upper arm. The other is extended to allow him to rub fingers through Crowley's hair.

They'll start sticking together soon if neither of them does anything about it, but right now Crowley doesn't really care. As gross and sticky as it is, it's also a testament to this sunny afternoon in bed.

They will need a bath at some point, though. He voices as much. Lamenting the fact that he knows Aziraphale doesn't have a tub.

There's a small, soft chuckle from the vicinity of Crowley's shoulder where Aziraphale has begun pressing butterfly kisses to it. "I think perhaps I have one now," he admits. "I do miss the Roman baths sometimes."

Crowley laughs, a little startled. Why he's surprised, he doesn't know. He knows Aziraphale almost as well as he knows himself. "In a bit," he mutters, just holding onto Aziraphale for a little longer.

* * *

1So rare, in fact, that the ratio is roughly the same as Crowley eating anything. They have their coping mechanisms and their human vessels have grown accustomed to them; for Aziraphale it's the food and for Crowley it's sleeping.Return to text

2This is, of course an understatement. To Crowley, Gabriel could die in a fire. Preferably the hellfire that he'd intended to kill Aziraphale with.  
Bastard.Return to text

3It never happened as often as one might have thought - mostly Aziraphale had to gently turn any advances away that had nothing to do with bellybuttons - and they were not few. Well, they would have displayed said bellybutton if he hadn't said no.Return to text

4It does indeed, but to him it takes the focus away from constantly wondering if Crowley does find his physical vessel attractive. He knows that Crowley is attracted to him no matter the wrapping - but one thing is knowing, another entirely is to tell your earthly vessel to calm the fuck down.Return to text


End file.
